THE SEEKING

THE unusual sounds of the street still came to the ears of all in the little village, but Marcia Haddon, agitated, held to her own room and tried to rest, to forget. She was aroused by the sudden advent of Granny Williams herself.

“Come on out here, Ma’am,” said that worthy. “I want ye to meet Davy’s granny—old Granny Joslin. She’s come down to talk things over to-day. Them two young wimmern has went away. They said they couldn’t stay, so I sont ‘em over to the blacksmith’s to stop. So set down an’ talk to Davy’s granny, Ma’am.”

Marcia was not prepared for the vision that met her gaze. Old Granny Joslin was old, very much older even than Granny Williams, more bent, less active, more afflicted by the blows of life and fate. Indeed, of late, Granny Joslin had seemed to all scarce so savage as of old, a trifle more bent than she had been in all her life before. Her eye was less fierce, as now she took the young woman’s hand in her own skinny, horny palm and looked into her eyes as straight as a hawk might.

“So ye air the furrin womern that Davy tolt me about,” said she. “Well, ye’re right purty, that’s shore.”

“Hain’t she, though!” affirmed Granny Williams. “Hain’t she, though!—an’ gittin’ purtier right along. If only she’d taken a few doses of camomile an’ sage, I’d ‘a’ had her ready by now so’s she could do a day’s work. She’s powerful triflin’, Granny.” Even old women called Granny Joslin “Granny,” for she was older than the oldest of them.

But Granny Joslin for some reason seemed softened quite beyond her wont. “I’m glad to see ye, Ma’am,” said she. “I’m sorry ye lost yore man down at the Narrers. Hit’s a powerful mean place fer a man to git in—thar’s a heap of graves around thar—men lost from the rafts at the Narrers. Davy’s tolt me, many’s the time.”

Marcia Haddon did not make any response.

“Davy tolt me all about ye, too,” continued the old woman. “I know ye must be moughty lonesome in here. When air ye goin’ back, Ma’am?”

“I don’t know,” said Marcia Haddon. “I’ve been here longer than I had planned—I ought to go any time—I must go now.”

“Did ye hear the playin’ in the street right now?” asked the old woman suddenly. “Has the war came up North as well as here?”

“Yes, Mrs. Joslin. It’s an awful, awful thing.”

“Well, I don’t know,” rejoined that worthy dame. “Men jest has to do a sartin amount of fightin’ aryways, an’ now they kin git plenty. They’d orter. Davy was the head man of our fam’ly ontel he went away, an’ then Chan Bullock, he taken it on—an’ now not even Chan seems to hev ary bit of sand left. Ma’am, he’s been livin’ right along here, they tell me, sleepin’ right alongside of old Absalom Gannt, an’ he nuvver got him yit!

“I jest sort of wandered in town to-day to see what I could do my own self. An’ now what do I see? Why, old Absalom Gannt an’ David Joslin an’ Chan Bullock a-marchin’ down the street arm in arm, ye mought say, follerin’ the music! What kin I do? I say, the war it’s a massy—jest so old Absalom gits killed somewhar, I don’t keer how it happens!”

“They’re brave men,” said Marcia Haddon, her eyes suddenly kindling. “Why, look what he did—your grandson—down there at the Narrows.”

“Well, he anyways saved the corp,” assented Granny Joslin, nodding. “Like enough couldn’t no man of done much more’n that.”

“Davy’s a-goin ‘out, I reckon,” said Granny Williams now, reaching for a coal for her pipe, and offering it in turn to the other old dame, still held between the tips of her horny fingers.

“Of course he’ll go,” grumbled his granddam. “Joslins kain’t stay out’n ary war. I reckon that’ll put a stop to his colledge up on the hill, huh? We got to wait now till we lick them Dutch a-plenty—they tell me it’s the Dutch we’re a-goin’ to fight.”

“If thar ever was any talk that Davy was a-skeered,” commented Granny Williams presently, “I reckon it’ll be stopped now.”

“Nobody but a fool would ever say a Joslin was a-skeered of arything!” broke out the other old dame fiercely. “If he was a-skeered, would he of done called them people together down at the mill house a purpose to taken a shot at him if they wanted ter? If he was a-skeered, would he of went up to the door of the stillhouse, come two year back, an’ called old Absalom out? Only pity is he didn’t kill Absalom then—well, as I said, jest so Absalom gits killed some way, I hain’t no wise pertic’lar.”

“That’s right, Granny,” nodded Granny Williams with approval, shifting her cob pipe to her hand. “That’s the proper sperrit of a Christian. An’ I like to hear ye say it thataway.”

“Well,” she went on, sighing, “our own fam’ly hain’t got skercely a quarl left no more, sence my son Andy kilt the last Purrin over on Newfound a few year back. If I was sitiwated like ye air, Granny, I’d feel jest the same as ye do. I kin forgive all them Purrins now jest as easy as not—sence they’re all daid. Forgiveness is what they preach in the church house.

“But now, Granny”—as the older woman sat staring moodily into the fire—“how come hit that yore Davy hain’t nuvver had no speakin’ yit down to the church house at the Creek? We’re jest perishin’ in here fer some right good preachin’. Onct in a while Preacher Bonnell he opens a meetin’ fer three or four days, an’ sometimes Old Man Parkins from up Redbird, he comes round here in his circuit. An’ thar’s a young man over in Leslie that they say is right promisin’, an’ he mought come over afore long. But thar hain’t been to say no religious awakenin’ in here, so to speak, fer a long time. An’ Davy—ye know he started out fer to be a preacher, him with his education an’ all. Why don’t he preach?”

“Yes, why don’t he?” demanded Granny Joslin savagely. “I taken that all up with Davy, an’ I kain’t do a damn thing with him. He says—well, what do you-all think he says to me?”

“I kain’t guess,” said Granny Williams. “He’s always been odd.”

“He says he ain’t good enough to preach!” exclaimed the fierce old woman who turned towards her. “He says, ‘I hain’t got my edication yit,’ says he to me.”

“Men is natural cantankerous,” said Granny Williams, nodding her head sagely. “Why the Lord made ‘em that way, the Lord only knows.”

“Davy won’t have no chance to preach anyhow if he goes to the war,” resumed Granny Joslin. “I reckon the school’ll all go to hell now. Has he said ary thing to ye about the school, Ma’am?” She turned suddenly now to Marcia Haddon.

“No,” rejoined that individual, somewhat startled; “nothing at all. I’ve not seen him for several days.”

“He tolt me ye was the wife of the man that owned the Company—an’ the Company owns all this land in here. Well, like I said, I reckon that school’ll have to go to hell now—an’ yit we certainly did need it—that school. Hit was—our school, the fustest in the Cumberlands.”

Marcia Haddon vouchsafed no comment, and presently old Granny Joslin rose.

“Well, I got to be gittin’ on, Sarah Alice,” said she to her friend. “I want to find Davy somewhar—I’ve brung him down some caraway cookies. He always liked ‘em. An’ I brung him a clean handkerchief—he’s got to have a heap of things if he’s a-goin’ off ter the war. I don’t know who them Dutch air—fer’s I know thar hain’t no Dutch in these mountings noways—but if we’ve got to lick ‘em, I reckon we’d just as well be about it. Damn ‘em anyways, whoever they air!” With which candid comment she hobbled on out the door, and never gave a parting glance as she faced up the street and started for her cabin home.

Granny Williams looked through the window after her departing guest. “Ho hum!” said she. “Thar goes the last of the Joslins—of the real Joslins. She was the fightin’est one of ‘em all, but she allus was a good Christian womern.”

“Why hain’t Davy come down here no more lately, Ma’am?” she asked suddenly of her silent guest.

“I don’t know in the least,” replied Marcia Haddon. “Does it matter?” Then, relenting: “I wish he would come! I ought to see him before he goes away, or before I go.”

“Why?” asked Granny Williams directly.

“I’ve got to be going. I’m a widow, you see, now, Granny—I’m alone! I’ve been thinking a good deal.”

“What ye been thinkin’, child?”

Marcia Haddon, with a strange humility, laid one of her soft white hands upon the wrinkled one reposing in the old dame’s lap. “I’ll tell you—I’ve been thinking about that little child we met up there in the cave.”

The old woman nodded.

“What will that child and all the others do if the school stops?”

“Oh, Davy’ll come back,” said Granny Williams—“he’s got to come back.”

“If we had buildings, and teachers, and everything,” mused her guest, “we could take care of any number.”

“Hit’d be a powerful fine thing for everybody,” said Granny Williams after a time of silence. “Now, Davy—he’s so odd, Ma’am. I’ve seen Davy Joslin set like he was in a dream. If only men wasn’t so cantankerous!”